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Christmas—or any day, for that matter, Mary had told Faith that Nubiangoats were very needy and got upset if they were left for too long. It apparently affected their milk. “I should really have started with a Swiss breed, something like White Saanens, much more placid,” she’d told Faith. “But my first two were Nubians and here I am.”
    â€œWe’d be happy to come get you,” Faith urged and asked about the only thing she could think of that would keep Mary away. “Is there a problem with one of the herd?”
    â€œIt’s not the goats,” Mary said. “It’s, well, it’s something else. Faith. I know this is a lot to ask, but is there any way you could come over here for a little while?”
    Startled by the unusual request, Faith heard herself answer, “Of course. When would you like me?”
    â€œAs soon as possible,” Mary said, hanging up.
    Faith stood a moment with the receiver still in her hand, thinking about Mary. The older woman lived by herself on her family farm, raising the goats, growing some vegetables, and making superlative goat cheese. The cheese had been their initial point of contact. Tasting some at a friend’s house, Faith had tracked Mary down—that in itself hadn’t been easy. Then it had taken a while to exchange more than a brief hello, thank you, and good-bye with Mary. Faith had felt as if she were befriending a woodland creature, luring a doe into the open. But Mary was proud of her cheese—and her herd. That was what drew her out. Over the last few summers, Faith had helped her with some new recipes—herbed chèvre, chèvre with sundried tomatoes, and a delectable cranberry-honey mixture. Noting the state of Mary’s finances—the woman had once confided she couldn’t afford to keep her house as warm as the barn and might start sleeping there in the winter—Faith had encouraged her to sell her cheeses more widely than at the weekly summer farmers’ markets on the island and in Blue Hill. Mary was now shipping cheese down to the Portland Public Market and a few closer to home most of the year.
    When they’d arrived last week, one of the first things Faithhad done was drive to the farm to get some cheese. Tom was on a low-fat diet, but Faith had gone online and discovered that there was some evidence that goat’s milk actually reduced cholesterol and had all sorts of other healthy properties. Even if this wasn’t true, salad with chèvre chaud —warm rounds of the cheese—was so tasty, his spirits would soar. Tom had confessed early on that he’d taken his health for granted and at times this betrayal by what he referred to as his “well-oiled machine” caused some depression.
    Mary had been very sympathetic when she’d heard about Tom’s illness—and comforting. “One of the Sanfords had the very same thing and was back fishing before the season ended.” She’d also pressed various rose-hip concoctions on Faith, swearing that, in addition to any and all goat products, they could cure everything from “a sprained ankle to a broken heart.” This was the way Mary spoke—slightly quirky and always direct. She was a reader. Books were stacked all over the parts of the house Faith had seen—the kitchen and a peep into the adjoining parlor. She was sure the rest looked the same. The two women often exchanged titles and sometimes the books themselves. It was another bond. Over the years, Faith had become very fond of Mary and wondered what her story was. The woman never talked about her personal life, and what little Faith knew had been gleaned from remarks others had made.
    Certainly there was an underlying sadness to Mary Bethany’s life. Didn’t she need something, or rather someone, besides her books and her goats? Had she had it and lost it?
    Faith replaced the receiver, thinking how human the goat in the